


Can We Fall in Love to David Bowie Instead?

by jcrycolr3wradc



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Hatchetfield High School, Paul's Gramps and Granny, References to David Bowie, offhand mention of physical violence against a minor, overuse of lyrics, sycamore high school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 18:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21342715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrycolr3wradc/pseuds/jcrycolr3wradc
Summary: Paul's soulmate has dubious taste in music. But as he goes through his senior year he slowly comes a compromise with the lyrics in his head. A showing a Brigadoon changes everything.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 2
Kudos: 91





	Can We Fall in Love to David Bowie Instead?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N : I fell back into Paulkins hell. To all the darlings who have been asking for Thirty Days to return: it will. Pinkie promise. Also, am I the only one basing Hatchetfeild on Grosse Ile in Michigan? Some peeps (PEIPs?) are putting it in Maine, but I highly recommend looking up Grosse and looking at their airfield. I feel it adds a lot to Hatchetfeild if you pretend there’s a giant…well, look it up.
> 
> Additionally I realized part way through I had to fuck the timeline. If Paul, Emma and Bill are 18 in 2003 then Alice would only be 15 in 2018 which…. Um. So I guess in the musical Bill must be slightly older than Paul, or Alice was born when Bill was 15. Which isn’t impossible, small American towns being what they are, but doesn’t seem right for Bill’s character. So just eh. Ignore it.

Paul gritted his teeth and tried to focus on Mr. Rick’s AP calculus lesson, tightening his shoulders as he hunched in. He winced when he was poked hard from behind. A note slid onto his desk.

_U ok?_

Paul glanced behind him and shot Bill a thumbs up, but then gestured to his head. Bill nodded and clapped his shoulder.

“Mr. Matthews? If you wouldn’t mind telling the class the answer?”

Paul looked up to see every eye on him. He immediately flushed and resisted the desire to sink down into his seat. But Mr. Rick was eyeing him and Paul knew he couldn’t get away with not answering.

He did his best to focus, but it was hard when there was the continuing refrain of _Popular! You’re gonna be popular! La la la popular!_

XXX

“Which song was it this time?” Bill asked.

They were sitting outside, Bill with his prepaid school lunch and Paul with his wrinkled brown bag that Grandma Judith packed.

Paul sighed. “I don’t know it. It was something like _popular duh duh duh, pop-u-lar_.”

Bill nodded. “Man, your soulmate must have _terrible_ taste.”

Paul didn’t say anything, stuffing a bit of warm chicken salad sandwich into his mouth. He didn’t know anything about his soulmate outside of their taste in music. And the fact the songs always seemed to be weird operatic pop music was seriously putting him off. Paul had been raised on a healthy diet of The Beatles, Elton John, Bowie, ABBA. Sometimes he’d listen to _Jailhouse Rock_ from Grandad’s old record player to send back to them, trying to drop a hint.

“What about you?” He nudged Bill with his shoulder. “Heard anything?”

“I had _Miss Independent_ when I woke up. I checked and there were 30 radio stations on AM playing that within five minutes of when I got up. But all of them were either on the east coast or west coast.”

Paul stole one of the soggy gross french-fries from Bill’s plate. “So they could be really close, or really far?”

Bill nodded. “How cool would it be if they lived in New York? That’s only like eight hours by car.”

Paul snorted. “It’ll be twelve with the way you drive, granny.”

“I like to be safe, asshole!” Bill nudged him back. “Also don’t steal my fries.”

Paul laughed and made another lunge for the plate.

XXX

After finishing with his paper throwing route, Paul was riding his bike back to the farm. He’d had some weird song about defying gravity in his brain since last night and was listening to Billy Joel on his new ipod shuffle in retaliation. Suddenly the music shifted.

“_Rebel, rebel you torn your dress, rebel, rebel, your face is a mess.”_

Paul nearly veered off the road in surprise. He’s never gotten any Bowie in the eighteen years he’d been listening to his unseen companion.

He hummed the bars under his breath and thought back: “_Rebel, rebel how could they know?”_

_“Hot tramp I love you so!”_

Paul was still grinning when he got back to the farm, humming.

XXX

Paul got his first real clue as to who his soulmate might be when he was with his Grandad Hank at Bill’s baseball game. They were playing Hatchetfeild High and their cheerleaders started doing their cheer.

_“Red and white! HHS is here to fight! Nighthawks can’t be beat, now let me hear you stomp your feet!”_

Paul choked on his soda, looking up. Yeah the awful cheer was being drowned out by the boos from the Sycamore Timberwolves, but it was also distinctly inside his head.

“Paul? What’s wrong son? Drink too fast?” Hank asked.

“Uh no. I’m hearing the Nighthawks chant.”

Hank shot him a pitting look. “Son, they’re loud as sin. Of course you can.”

“No, no, no. Like, in my head.” He gestured emphatically to his temple.

Hank immediately stood up, looking at the other side of the field. “Think of a song then, son! Come on, Paul.”

Paul was blanking out. “Uh, uh, uh.”

_Pretty in pink, isn’t she?_

_Pretty in pink, isn’t she?_

He looked around, trying to see if anyone was reacting. None of cheerleaders even flinched and even though it was a high school baseball game, with maybe two dozen families, Paul couldn’t track them all.

“Do you wanna go over there?” Hank asked. Paul hesitated before slowly sitting back down.

“No. I’ll wait, till after.”

Years later Paul would try to recall what happened at that baseball game since then, but he never could. Sycamore won, but he spent all of his time looking over at the other side of the field. By the time the game was over, he and his soul mate had made it all the way through _Pretty in Pink_. But when he got up to go check, no one was looking around for him, or even glanced his way. He wandered over to center field and stood there for a moment.

_Take me out to the ballgame, take me out to the crowd! _

_Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack, I don't care if I never get back!_

He looked around, waiting for someone, anyone. Hank was still in the stands, looking at him, but too far away to make out an expression.

_Don't let me get me. I'm my own worst enemy._

The tone suddenly shifted and Paul scrambled to understand. He was sure he’d heard this song on the radio before.

_Never win first place, I don't support the team. I can't take direction, and my socks are never clean._

Quickly he thought back:

_Rebel rebel how could they know? Hot tramp I love you so!_

The musical link between them fell silent. Paul stood out there until Bill came out of the changing room and Hank gestured him back. He sighed.

_Pretty in pink. Isn’t she pretty in pink? Isn’t she?_

XXX

Despite his best efforts, Paul couldn’t find his soulmate afterwards. He thought of as many terrible commercial jingles and pop songs but as he looked around, no one noticed.

He told Bill afterwards.

“You dork! You should have gone over there!”

Paul shrugged in bewilderment. “I didn’t know!”

“So you think they go to Hatchetfeild High?” Bill asked.

“Yeah I think. Why else would they have that dumb chant in their head?” Paul scratched an answer on his homework sheet. Bill was silent for a moment and then looked over at him.

“You wanna go over there?”

Paul looked up. He stared over the hill that the high school sat on. Down past the fields and streets to where the bigger Hatchetfeild High was. He glanced back to Bill and nodded.

“Yeah, I do.”

And this was how Paul and Bill found themselves on their bikes, riding downtown.

XXX

Paul would spend as much time around Hatchetfeild High as he could. He even changed his paper throwing route to be able to pass around the school and neighborhood. He hummed _rebel, rebel_ under his breath but he never saw anyone look around or react. He even went and asked the only person he knew that went to HHS, Becky Barnes, if she had heard anyone who went around hearing The Psychedelic Furs and the Beatles and David Bowie in their head.

She didn’t.

Towards the end of the spring semester, after the Easter Holidays, that the teachers announced they would be going to a performance at Hatchetfeild High School.

Bill and Paul settled down in the thread bear theater seats that had seen the butts of thousands of other high schoolers before them.

“What do you think it’s going to be?” Bill asked.

Paul shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe a play?” He was distracted and looking around. It was a mixed crowd and Paul thought, _Rebel rebel, how could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so!_

_Jeanie’s packing up! Jeanie’s moving out! Jeanie’s packing up! Jeanies’s moving out!_

“Argh!” Paul put a hand up to his head. It had been months since he heard anything so repetitive and insipid.

“Huh? What’s you say, Paul?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the lights went down and trying to ignore the singing going around and around in his mind.

The auditorium gradually quieted down. The stage lights came up and the sound of bagpipes, flutes and drums began. This did not help Paul’s headache in the slightest.

What followed over the next two and half hours was the worst form of entertainment Paul had ever been forced to endure. And Bill had made him see Attack of the Clones _twice_ last year when it was in theaters.

Midway through however there was a song. _The song._

“_Jeanie’s packin’ up! Jeanie’s movin’ out! Jeanie’s packin’ up! Jeanie’s moving out!_”

Paul gaped up at the stage, sitting up in his seat. The teen girl who was picking up the clothing and passing it down was petit and her hair was covered with a wig. Her mouth was quirked in a small smile as she sang. But there was something about her eyes, which were a bright brown, which captured Paul’s attention.

She began to dance and even though Paul couldn’t have cared less about the story and he cringed every time someone snapped their attention to middle distance to sing, there was something about her that just keep drawing Paul’s attention. Everything seemed so fake and corny and the end was just horrifying once you thought about it for more than three seconds. But this girl…this girl was real, genuine.

Finally it was over.

Paul stood up, more relived than he had ever been. Bill smiled.

“Well that was fun, right, Paul?” He asked.

“Wha- What? No! That was awful!”

“You don’t like musicals?” Bill asked, amused.

“Absolutely not. That was so weird. Also, you do know everyone is going to be dead within like, days of the ending, right?” He asked, craning his head around to try and see through the curtains to the back of the stage.

“You’re so cynical. What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to see where that one actress went.”

“Which one?”

“The pretty one,” Paul blurted out then blushed.

“Ooooh!” Bill cooed. “The cute one huh?” They edged their way out of the auditorium. Paul was still turning his head every way to see if he could find her. “Come on, Paul we’re gonna miss the bus.”

“It’s okay, you go ahead. I’m going to stay and try to find her,” Paul said. He started heading down one of the hallways, trying to find the backstage door.

“Paul seriously, we have to go,” Bill tried to steer him but he batted him away.

“No. You go. I’m staying,” Paul insisted stubbornly.

Bill sighed in exasperation. “What the hell man? She can’t be that’s cute.”

Paul finally turned and faced his best friend. “No, I just. I think she’s the _one_.”

He stared at Paul blankly for a moment. “Your soulmate?”

Paul nodded fervently. Bill clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, let’s go find her. Come on Paul.”

XXX

Hatchetfeild High was about double the size of Sycamore High. After wandering around for a good half an hour they still hadn’t found anyone who knew who they were talking about. Three o’clock came and went. Then four o’clock. It was nearing five and finally Paul gave up.

It was a long, quiet walk back to Sycamore to pick up Bill’s car, since the school wouldn’t let Paul bring his bike. Bill drove him back to the farm. The light was on and Paul’s heart sank when he saw Hank sitting on the porch.

“Hey, at least you know what she looks like. I bet you can find her in town this summer,” Bill pointed out. His hands tightened on the wheel. “You know where she is.”

Paul glanced over and noticed that Bill’s face was pinched. He reached over and clapped a hand to his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“You’ll find ‘em Bill. Don’t worry,” he said softly, suddenly feeling super shitty and selfish. Bill smiled slightly.

“Don’t worry about me, Paul. Seriously, let’s find your girl this summer, then you can get me back, alright?” He nudged him. “Now get out of my car. Do you want me to stick around to watch when Hank beats your pasty butt?” Paul laughed and climbed out of the car. He waved when Bill pulled away, then turned to face the proverbial music. Paul started walking towards the house, shrinking down as Hank eyed him.

“You wanna explain, son?” Hank asked when Paul was in front of the porch. He flicked his cigarette away. “Grandma Judy made lasagna and it went cold waitin’ on you.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Paul knew when he was in serious trouble he needed to break out the “sir”.

“And? Sorry doesn’t do shit ‘round here, Paul,” Hank barked.

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “There was a thing at school. We had to go to Hatchetfeild High and watch this show. But uh, one of the girls. I heard her. In my head.”

Hank nodded slowly. “She’s your one?”

Paul nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I could hear her so clearly.”

“You get her name?” Hank asked. “You talk to her, son?”

Paul shook his head. “No, sir.”

Hank clicked his fingers and gestured to the door. “Get in the house, son. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.”

“So… am I in trouble?”

“You’re getting up and feeding the cocks tomorrow. Then you’re milking the cow,” Hank grunted. “Get in and apologize to Judy.”

XXX

From there Paul’s summer spiraled. After graduation, Bill had to get ready for college and Paul kept working at the newspaper and on the farm. Hank’s Harley finally officially became his.

But despite going to downtown Hatchetfeild every night and looking around everywhere, Paul couldn’t find the girl again. He’d listen to the quiet repetitions of _rebel, rebel._

He worked on the motorcycle and fed the chickens. He trained the new puppy that Hank got for his graduation. Soon Bill had to leave for University of Michigan and Paul was alone on Hatchetfeild. He never stopped looking around for the girl. He would never forget how real she was, how gracefully she moved, the beautiful color of her eyes.

XXX

Unknown to him, it would be over ten years later before Paul would see her again. Eventually Bill moved back to Hatchetfeild with his wife, Nicole and their baby, Alice, who was Paul’s favorite person in the world from the moment Bill put her in his arms.

He’d start work for CCPI through Bill, after his accident with the bike stopped his paper-pitching days. Data entry and spreadsheet organization was just about the most mind-numbing thing Paul thought he could do with his days. Thank god that Bill worked in the cubical next to his.

Through the years he was still catching strains of “Rebel” through his head. It would happen in the dead of night and Paul would wake up, like he was ready to answer the call of someone who wasn’t even there.

_Hot tramp, I love you so!_

After nearly fifteen years of seeing that stupid musical, Paul still hadn’t forgotten the girl.

XXX

Paul, despite working for a soulless corporation, never forgot Hank’s late night growling about ‘the man’, before Judy would take his beer and send him to bed with a “get out of here, you old fuckin’ hippy.”

So when a new coffee shop opened two blocks down from Starbucks, Paul made a pointed effort to go there.

“You’re such a virtue signaler, Paul,” Ted scoffed. “Just go to fuckin’ Starbucks, huh?”

Paul rolled his eyes and left CCPI Technical.

It was a nice day, with comparatively low humidity and the sun low and mild in the sky. Fall was right around the corner, with some overachieving trees already turning and dropping leaves. Paul hummed _rebel, rebel, your face is a mess_ under his breath. He heard a distant echo and his heart clenched around some psychosomatic pain.

Paul finally came to the coffee shop and double checked that it was open before pushing the door open. There was no one at the counter, so he scanned the handwritten chalkboard, wincing slightly at the prices.

_It had better be damn good coffee, and _ **hot ** _if it’s 3.50 for a small black drip!_

The radio was quietly playing Tiny Dancer but there was a noise from the back and Paul leaned over slightly to see over the counter.

“Shit! Coming, coming!” A harried, irritable voice said.

A petit woman dressed in black and white with her brown hair pulled back into a complex bun on the back of her head. But what made Paul’s breath stutter in his chest were her eyes. Her bright brown eyes were circled and irritated, but they were _hers_. They were real, authentic.

“Can I help you?” She asked snappishly.

Paul mouthed silently for a moment. “Um. Uh, can I get a small black coffee, please?”

She nodded brusquely. “Three seventy-five,” she said, grabbing a cup after he fumbled with his cash to hand it over. “Do you need room for cream and sugar?”

“Oh. No, thank you.”

Paul watched as she moved around, pouring the coffee into the carboard cup. Overhead Tiny Dancer was still playing.

_Piano man, he makes his stand in the auditorium. Looking on, she sings the songs, the tune she hums._

Paul realized she was humming along with the music, swaying slightly. He must have been too obvious in his staring because she glanced over and stopped. She handed over the coffee and cleared her throat.

“Here you go. Have a good day.”

“Yeah you too,” he muttered, still looking into her eyes. “Um. Hey, I like the music you’re playing,” he blurted out.

She frowned. “What? Our radio’s broken. I was still fuc- I mean I was trying to fix it when you came in.”

Paul’s heart began to race.

_Hold me closer, tiny dancer. Lay me down in sheets of linen, you had a busy day today. Hold me closer tiny dancer. Count the headlights on the highway._

“So you _aren’t_ playing Elton John’s Tiny Dancer?” He asked softly.

The realization came over her like a sunrise. Her bright eyes went wide as her mouth popped open. Slowly, she even began to blush. Paul couldn’t stop his smile.

_Rebel rebel?_ The lyric drifted through his mind.

_Hot tramp, I love you so!_

She shuffled slightly, rotating the cup she was still holding. “Uh so. What’s you name?” She asked. It was as if the sudden blow had softened her. Her shoulders dropped and her gaze stopped being so stony.

“I’m Paul.”

“Hi Paul. I’m Emma.”

_Hold me closer tiny dancer._

_Rebel, rebel._

They might have stood there for another hour, just listening to music only they could hear and looking at one each other. But the bell over the door rang and Emma’s boss came out to bark at her to get back to work. Paul got a text from Bill asking where he was.

He finally took the cup from her and cleared his throat. “Um, can I ask what time you get off?”

Emma glanced behind her at the clock. “I’m here till two. I have an hour till my classes start after that.”

Paul nodded. “I can be here. If you want to grab uh, coffee or lunch or something.” He swallowed before he started to babble nervously.

She smiled slightly then grabbed one of the carboard sleeves, quickly scribbling something on it. The man behind Paul sighed loudly and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Here you go. In case something happens.” She winked. “Right, rebel?”

Paul couldn’t stop grinning, all the way back to work.

_Hey babe, lets go out tonight. You like me and I like it all. Rebel rebel, how could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so!_

  * Fin


End file.
